


let's die somewhere prettier

by FiresaFineThing



Category: Death Note & Related Fandoms, Death Note (Anime & Manga), Death Note: Another Note
Genre: 2020 near because i love that depressed man, M/M, Slow Burn, also like just stuff I'm changing, combination manga-and-anime-verse, everyone comes back to life au, fix-it fic but like if everything got worse, like the slowest of burns since the second half of the main ship won't show up for a few chapters, more of a near character study, naomi deals with everyone's shit and she deserves to work in a much better environment, near is an asshole and we love/hate him for it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:00:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23858737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiresaFineThing/pseuds/FiresaFineThing
Summary: Kurou Otoharada, Takuo Shibuimaru, Lind L. Tailor, etc, etc, etc, etc.The list keeps growing.Kira,the streets below pray.Kira,Near thinks,What is this? Your final creation of Heaven, or Hell?The dead breathe again.
Relationships: L/Yagami Light, Mello | Mihael Keehl/Near | Nate River
Comments: 54
Kudos: 121





	1. coda

> _**There are people who justice cannot save.** _

Mello’s body was never recovered from the fire. While Matt’s death looped over the streets of Tokyo, Mello burned away into nothing, leaving nothing. Except this.

Near holds Mello’s last words in a crumpled mass of thirty to forty pages of memories he didn’t realize existed till Gevanni left it with his resignation letter. It has been a month. There was no funeral. Matt’s body was taken by Kira cultists and Mello became nothing. Near doesn’t owe them false regards, forced tears, or a room full of people who never knew them listen to carefully built lies. It’s Near’s decision now. L’s decision. 

He shuts the memories and N away. L attends L’s funeral. Yagami Light lies in a closed coffin while Near sits on the floor and waits for it to be over. Misa Amane is not present. Matsuda Touta is not present. There are more unspoken absences than SPK members to fill the silence broken by Sachiko Yagami’s sobs and Sayu Yagami’s stillness. It is a beautiful morning. The sakura blossoms litter the streets. 

He does not bother to wear black. It is a waste of a morning but he has Halle leave a bouquet of yellow chrysanthemums as they leave. It is a waste of a morning that seeps into a waste of a day. It is a waste of a day that seeps into a waste of a week, into a month, into months. He cannot open the file shoved into his desk, a desk that he barely uses except as a platform for his dice towers. He has a chocolate bar and proceeds to choke on the sweetness. It hurts his teeth. 

He does not leave Japan. He should. It’s what L would have done and he is now L. For all intents and purposes, L has both died twice and not at all. His reputation is ruined from the years of misuse but as Near has always done, he rebuilds. He does it all from Japan, learns the seasons of pink and white, hears the Tokyo crowds from an open window, speaks when necessary through a microphone that sounds like a ghost, builds cityscapes, destroys them; he rebuilds. He shouldn’t have lived but he has Mello to thank for that.

He wouldn’t have won without Mello. He places another tarot card on the stack. Cases come in and the numbers double, Kira becoming more of a legend than a man which is more than Light Yagami deserves. The Emperor. He deserved nothing. The Moon. His legacy should be nothing. The Lovers. But the world spun on Kira’s finger, and now is spinning off-course. As Light Yagami decays into his bullet-ridden suit, he hasn’t truly died. If death is meant to be equal, Kira has talked his way out of it again. This isn’t _equal_. 

Mello’s last words are waiting for him in the desk drawer a few feet away. He has covered it in cards. He’s covered almost everything at this point, balanced perfectly on each other. 

He is a bad L. The Magician. Near tries. He’s combed over every existing file and scrap L left behind. He builds and builds the patterns up into mazes. The Chariot. Halle and Rester have not shown up in weeks but he doesn’t worry. They know when they’re needed. Seven of Wands. He solves enough cases that L can once again be used by national governments without the wary dance they put on before asking. After all, the Kira case was never officially closed. His success rate is no longer 100%. 

Gevanni took offense and Near had already been preparing for his leave before he laid the package on the table. Why the secrecy? Near lays another card on the tower. Four of Cups. People deserve to know. 

Judgement. He examines the card. Eventually the chaos will resolve itself. 

_It’s not a sense of justice_. Near places the card. _It’s simply prolonging something I enjoy doing_.

He’s memorized the words by heart. It’s what’s left of L, the man. Near has told himself that he likes him. 

Near is a liar. He is a cheat. He can recognize it in himself, as L had when he was alive. Light Yagami is lying in a cemetery. Kira is worshipped. _Beloved Brother_. Kira has single-handedly killed more people than several recorded genocides. Mello is a stack of crumpled paper in Near’s desk drawer.

Near closed the case and let Kira’s ghost run wild. No, it’s not justice at all.

He draws Death. He tells Halle and Rester not to knock over his towers. C-Kira is a small blip in a post-Kira world. Near is surrounded by the Ls of his creation, swallowing him up in the cards he’s reversed. Halle is right. He sits and watches the hours creep by as the Ls stay finished, stay perfect. He’s waiting for someone that won’t listen to him. Near stays until he opens his eyes and it’s morning again. 

He remembers the card placements. It’s easy to find what he’s looking for. The Hermit. The Ls collapse around him, cards fluttering into a sea of colors. Near swims in them. He’s lost in them. Near is nothing. N is gone. Halle is right.

He is L now. 

He opens the drawer and reads the file in an hour. It burns well on the gas stove, the one he’s never bothered to use. Near closes his eyes. He tries to breathe. 

\----

Mello and Matt’s graves lie on Wammy’s grounds. The birds swoop on seeds carried by the breeze. England is cold and Near’s shoes have a thin layer of mud coating the sole. If he closes his eyes, he can hear bells in the distance. 

It is 2014. C-Kira’s lapse in activity is a long line, stretching towards the rest of time. He’s certain this is the end of it. He curls a finger around his hair and watches the pigeons fight over the birdseed spilled over empty soil. Near’s other hand rests in the seed bag, thumbing the ridged shells of each seed. Children wrestle in his old playroom. He never ventured out as a child, preferring his puzzles to exploring the rotting grounds. Now, the aftermath of neglectful years lays waste to old hideouts. He can tell where footprints trod enough to leave scars. The buds of spring threaten to erase them entirely. 

He’s calmer than he’s been in the last four years but he can’t trust the stillness. New cases grow from the corpses of the old. He wears the finger puppets from time to time. Halle and Rester gift him socks for his 22nd birthday and he lurks in the room with unicorn-covered feet. Sometimes, he’s so calm that his heart slows enough to the point of question. If Near believed in an afterlife, he might attribute it to Kira. A final, long death. 

It is 2015. He stops cutting his hair. His reflection loses the last remains of baby fat and grows strands of white that frame his face in an accusation. Halle cuts her hair shorter and Near knows she’s waiting for an opportunity to say something. He puts her on leave for a month and uses the time to remake her puppet, shaving down her locks into a shorter bob. Mello, L, and Kira wait in his new desk drawer. He left his own puppet back in Japan. When his face stops shifting, he’ll craft the next one.

It is 2016. They formally establish themselves in New York, America. It’s one of many properties L left behind, one that Near already favoured after they departed Tokyo. It’s a matter of politics, passing the dimming torch of power and Near being tired of governments bartering for L’s influence to weaponize against each other. L may have had time for these games but Near can’t find the patience to handle the ever-changing players. A roll of the dice. L is officially an American citizen. The naturalization means nothing to him but Halle and Rester pour champagne in crystal glasses, never used. None of them take more than a few sips and the vintage goes stale.

The cities sound the same wherever he goes. All the chatter of the people below, he relearns. 

It is 2017. Near wears holes through his socks. The new president calls him and he lets it go to voicemail. He starts and scraps and restarts his puppet till he finally leaves the remains of it in the drawer with the rest. He crafts a rosary in a week and places it in his bedroom.

It is 2018. He is 26. His hair reaches beyond his shoulders. He’s outlived L. 

America is a dissonant country. For all the posturing and bickering, they are a unit. A single organism, eating itself from the inside. _Like an ouroboros_ , he balances dominos around him, _or a cancer?_

Mello spent years here. The sentence comes carelessly, another fact in a long chain. It’s the first time in weeks he’s thought about Mello and the dominos topple before he’s ready.

It is 2019. Halle and Rester give him a weighted blanket as a late birthday present. It’s an excuse full of holes but Near can’t bother to object when Rester drops it over his shoulders one day. The streets stay loud and he swings between never sleeping and sleeping till days pass. This is normal. The blanket warms, grounds, pins him. He—

It’s late afternoon and if he closes his eyes, he can pretend the weight is something else. A half-remembered voice tasting sweet on his tongue. To give it a name would give it the ability to die. So he thumbs his sleeve till loose threads snag on his fingernails with one hand, and prays in the other. He’s seen people do it. He knows the motions. It gets hot and his hair makes the heat worse but he stays still and burns until he’s weak enough to kick the blanket off.

This only happens 5% of the nights he uses it. Most of the occurrences are in January. Otherwise, he rests normally, dreamless.

It is April 2019. Near solves puzzles. He visits what’s left of Wammy’s. He washes his hair and falls asleep in the bath. He builds train sets, watching them loop around headquarters. Sometimes he steps on a lego. He naps on the 3D printer base and pretends not to notice when Halle and Rester leave early. His wardrobe shifts slightly, a black shirt substituting for white, hair ties for long days. The motions are correct, predictable. He is only 70% as productive as L was at his height but this is also predictable.

May 2019. He makes plans and doesn’t follow through. The American government purchases the Death Note, slides it into their armoury between L and several nuclear bombs. 

June 2019. Minoru Tanaka dies of a heart attack in a Yotsuba Bank branch. The dots are easy to connect, tracing backwards. It’s disappointing but not unexpected. 

No one can cheat a Death Note. No exceptions.

Near throws the entire seed bag at once. Birds swarm like flies, departing just as quickly once the ground is picked free. He leaves when there are no more excuses to linger and does not look back. 

\---

July 2019. Kurou Otoharada appears on the site of his death with a piece of paper gripped in his palm. Near’s structure recollapses.


	2. exitus acta probat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The situation reveals itself. Near does his job, meets some old faces, and prepares for the worst.

> **_Once dead, they can never come back to life._ **

He’s watched the numbers grow the past twenty-four hours. This is impossible. 

“L,” Halle asks, “what do you need us to do?” 

Near balances the playing cards precariously, noting the slight tremble in his fingertips threatening to topple everything. This should be impossible, but. There’s no denying evidence. 

“Lidner, please contact the prisons affected and ask for the papers they’ve confiscated from the prisoners. Make sure we’re accounting for every known Kira victim. Rester, call up the President.” 

He hesitates, card buckling in the pinch of his fingers. Ace of Hearts. “And please contact the surviving members of the Kira Task Force. We may need to shift headquarters for the foreseeable future.” 

They leave Near to his tower. Once he’s certain they’re out of ear shot, he switches on the news. The card is bent. No matter how much he smooths it between his fumbling hands, there is a crease striking through the heart. It’s all static. _Miracle_ , _apocalypse_. People seethe through cemeteries and churches and politicians spill their agendas and spin impossibilities into signs. Someone is gaining something. This isn’t altruism. This is an attack. It has to be.

Kurou Otoharada, Takuo Shibuimaru, Lind L. Tailor, etc, etc, etc, etc.

The list keeps growing. _Kira_ , the streets below pray. 

_Kira_ , Near thinks, _What is this? Your final creation of Heaven, or Hell?_

The dead breathe again. 

\---

There are miscalculations and there are philosophical questions and there are answers that no one wants to hear but everyone expects L to say. Near has to wrench out information through multiple aliases, governments shaking under the sudden weight of lives already crossed out of public record, if not forgotten completely. Victims are building blocks to a killer’s reputation, a statistic given a heartbeat. It’s easier to think of them in parts rather than a whole. The numbers increase steadily, exponentially. Near would not be doing any of this if he was uncertain about the stakes, laid out like sharpened kitchen knives before him. 

Halle brings him the pages and the handwriting is unmistakable. The same neat strokes he burned nearly a decade ago. 

“After I received them, the wardens contacted me.” Halle is holding back her fear in the arch of her neck, the slight tension in her shoulders. 

Near holds Death Note pages. They number in the hundreds. 

Halle swallows. “They’re dead, L.” 

He closes his eyes. 

“They. . . disintegrated once the pages departed the prisons. Most are refusing to send more of the pages until they get an explanation.” 

His head weighs the facts. Near flips through the papers. Only a single name on each, black space dominating the majority of the page.

“We are not releasing any information. This will become an unprecedented disaster if the rules of the Death Note are leaked to the public. There will not only be second deaths, but new ones.” He traces the kanji with the tip of his finger. “We want to contain and eliminate any possibility of Kira’s return.” 

He sets the pile aside. “We need those pages. All of them.” 

Halle and Rester do not respond. Near doesn’t meet their eyes. 

“They won’t give us the pages if lives are at stake.” Rester speaks from his chair, chin against his fist. “And if they don’t understand what the pages are, they won’t realize more lives are at stake.” 

“Yes,” Near says. It’s a solid point. Lives are at stake, no matter the choice. The circumstance begs him to run the numbers, observe the ripple of hysteria cascading into lives that escaped judgement a decade ago. Sacrifice the few for the many. How Kira of them to send men to their deaths for the greater good. 

But this is an entirely different situation. Near takes a piece of paper. Folds it once. To have these men _disintegrate_. . . How alive can they be? Smooths it out, folds it to create an opposite crease. He is unable to currently judge whether these men are more than mirages, ghosts given shape, but for the time being, he has to assume them as equal to any other person. Tears away the extra paper, leaving a square behind. Another fold. The American government did not reveal information about the Death Note to the public after the auction, despite claiming ownership of Kira’s power. While this is in their favor, what stops people from getting curious? All the steps are implied within a single page. 

Name. Paper. Ink. Dead man, now walking. Thousands, the same pattern. Near presses the crease. The possibility is higher with every life restarted. As are the stakes. Flip, fold, diamond shape. His hair falls in his face. If the answer is guessed, someone gets greedy, pages pass hands, lives won’t matter to the ones that they end up in. That’s true even now, as he makes another fold. As L, he passes judgement and it is righteous. He has never been wrong. What would L do? Repeat steps on the other side. What would L do? 

He would take those pages. He would steal them, if necessary. He would burn them. The kite shape in his hands teeters as he shifts it between left and right, right and left. The threat they pose to the world is too much to leave to chance. And L knows what’s right. Near lifts and presses, wolf’s head in his palm. These men have already lost the game. Many more players are at risk. It’s the best strategy. Lift the snout to the ears, mouth gaping wide. _I’m not a tool for you to use to solve your puzzle_. Near bites down on his cheek, folds. 

There’s no way to not see them as pieces. Equally valuable pieces, with exceptions for the powerful, the ones who wield their own bartering chips. L himself is only one piece, able to be traded and swapped like the ones he gambles. They are all weapons to use against each other. Pulls the pieces to align, just right. A decade ago, the letters N-A-T-E-R-I-V-E—

Yes, they are all only pieces. A game between L and Kira where neither won, just survived, in their own ways. Kira as a legend and L as Nate River, a boy who officially died in Great Britain at 19. There is blood in his mouth. Wing folds and it’s nearly finished. Near releases his cheek and blows softly into the body. A white crane rests on his palm, the remains of a name neatly dotting the wings like feather patterns.

He’s outlived L for two years, nearly three. He’s fighting a ghost. A man once said that justice has more power than anything else. 

_Kindness_. Near strokes the crane’s wing. _Justice is the only kindness._

He will not bow to the rules Kira presents. But to subvert them, he needs to know them.

“Linder, let them know they need to confiscate whatever pages appear and lock them for safekeeping. Set up surveillance. If we’re to continue to keep track of the pages, we’ll need their future cooperation.” Near sets the crane on the rest of the pile. “And as long as the situation stabilizes, they should be open to our input.”

For now, they’ll tread lightly. He flicks the edge of the next page and pries it out from underneath the crane. Another fold. 

\---

Interpol is just as tedious as Near remembers. He calls them from his bed, half underneath the covers, because he can’t be bothered when they won’t see his face and he’s been awake for thirty-six hours and counting. It’s flirting with unconsciousness and the questions they ask don’t help.

They’ve asked him to be here and they barely address him directly. He feeds them half-truths, already more honesty than he can afford, but there’s no getting past this when he needs nearly every country in the world to cooperate with him. Debates on whether this is a miracle or a covert crime persist. All link the situation to Kira. Most throw veiled remarks about L’s competency in solving the Kira case and the others question the purpose of what’s going on and Near can’t address either. 

\---

“Who do you think is doing this?” Halle asks. She stares over the Manhattan cityscape. Somewhere, in the capital of this country, a close acquaintance lies beneath a gleaming marble headstone. _Served her country well_. Her hair forms a shield around her jawline. She’s always been guarded about the specifics and Near has never pushed. It makes Halle feel better, pretending she has secrets. 

He pauses in his folding and looks up. 

“There’s been a shared fact in each resurrection. Each victim died from the Death Note,” he says. “There’s been no further connection and no discrimination in who comes back. We have no knowledge of any supernatural method that can undo the effects of a Death Note and the Death Note itself ruled that such events cannot happen.” 

“But then again,” he picks up his current crane, “we had no knowledge of a rule about _selling_ the Death Note either.”

His call with the president had been fruitful in gleaning one fact. He’d hung up once the man had started griping about results. 

“That rule did not exist when I read the Note’s rules in 2010, which means that rules can be added, or changed.” Near gives it a solid tug before settling it with the rest. “This is likely another instance where a shinigami changes the rules. As for why they would change it. . .” 

He counts the cranes circling him. 174. They look fragile in the gleam of the New York sunset, as if they might dissolve in the light. “I don’t know.” 

None of this has made her feel better. Near can see it in her rigid shoulders, muscle tightening around her jaw. Still, there is a faith in him when he glances up, a single pointed look she shoots as the door closes. 

He thinks about the grave Halle visits each year. Continues to fold.

\---

These men have no faith in L. 

“Why should we trust you?” A voice carries over the commotion.

Near is ready to sleep for a week. 

“Is there anyone else to ask?” The words smooth and distort into the typical L drawl but Near pinpoints the rough edges. It rings true, hollows him out. Is there anyone else to ask?

\---

The situation does not stabilize. He wakes and fifty-seven men have disintegrated.

Mass prayer is broadcasted from Tokyo and holy men argue which of their texts have predicted this. Near has read all of them. The answer is none. 

He stays in bed and stares at the ceiling till his eyes sting, aware that the team has started without him. The television has been on for the entire night. The only thing that gets him to lurch up is the spewed shit Kira worshippers chant, small minds convinced this fits their philosophy of mass murdering criminals.

Cranes litter his bedroom floor. It’s impossible for him to reach the door without crushing a few.

\---

Lights brighten skyscrapers and burn out stars. They fly out at 1 AM, bags stuffed full of nearly blank pages, toys, his weighted blanket. Gevanni arrives as they are about to depart. He nods to Near and doesn’t speak for the rest of the flight. 

Near clutches the rosary in between his fingers and counts the hours. He wants to sleep. The plane roars. 

A few of the prisoners have stayed alive. 93% have disintegrated, their pages now nested in the plane’s baggage. How do they get them to stay? He moves to the next bead. There’s a pattern in the data, one that’s evading the fog that’s been with Near since the morning. Headaches weren’t a problem before; they shouldn’t be a problem now. Age comes to mind, then exhaustion, and then the fact that he’s not focusing on the true issue. He’s trapped in this chair, his hands can’t do anything productive, his hair is knotted in the back and it _hurts_ , men are dying again and Near is the only one who can stop it but can’t manage to shake off one headache at _this time_. How does he get them to stay? 

They are attached to their pages and cannot be separated from them within a certain distance. This is universal. Even if they aren’t separated, they still disintegrate after a certain period of time, around three days. This is not universal, but affects the majority.

 _Then what_ _separates the minority?_

Near thinks and grimaces. There is something familiar about this. The team is gathering information but he needs more men. They land in Tokyo and Near hasn’t slept in twenty-six hours. 

\---

The Japanese Task Force building had been rented out to several insurance agencies, now all evicted, leaving the shell of a twenty-three floor building for him to unfold. He’s aware of what happened here, why the second L left a perfectly good structure to waste. Near curls a strand around his finger, smiles, and traces the plastic of a swivel chair. The dust floats into clouds of haze. It softens the edges of the room, light filtering in, casting halos on outdated furniture. Kira couldn’t outrun one ghost. 

Shuichi Aizawa, Kanzo Mogi, Touta Matsuda, and Hideki Ide arrive a day later. They’re quieter than Near remembers, with the exception of Mogi. Matsuda startled at the sight of him, almost saying something before Aizawa had elbowed him while Near pretended not to notice. It was probably a remark about his appearance. He hadn’t brushed his hair since this began and Rester would likely corner him with a comb once this meeting ended. He must look quite disheveled. He nudges his robot closer to his lap. The men glance at each other and stare at the porcelain cups in their hands.

They sit in a makeshift circle, Near on the floor with both legs curled to the side. The room is relatively put-together, save the toys scattered around. Gevanni swept away most of the dust and settled most of the equipment overnight. Near eyes the bottled ship on the coffee table and sips his tea with a hum. 

“Thank you Gevanni. You have a sharp sense of detail.” He allows himself to relax with the smile Gevanni sends in return. 

“Near— I mean, L—” Matsuda breaks the silence first, sets his cup on the table. “This is about the resurrections, right? You’re looking for who’s behind it?” 

“No,” Near says, looking into his cup. His face ripples in the black liquid. “I’m trying to understand the scope of what’s happening and contain whatever effect the Death Note pages may have.” 

A tremor travels through the group at the mention of the Note. Near sips his tea again.

“And currently, I don’t believe there is a person behind the phenomenon. Our efforts are better used to make sure no harm comes from the influx of pages.” He frowns once the dregs reach his lips, sets the cup aside. 

Matsuda furrows his brow. “But—”

“Our efforts?” Aizawa asks.

Near blinks. “Yes. If you decide to work with me. As you all have experience with the Death Note, I would appreciate your help in dealing with this.” He curls a strand of hair around his finger. “I think everyone would agree that the less people exposed to the Death Note’s rules, the safer we all are.” 

“And the people who come back?” Ide raises his chin. “What are we supposed to do about them?”

Near pulls on the strand. “We need to understand the boundaries of their existence before we can debate what to do. I’ll debrief you on what the team has already established once we’re settled.” He releases it, hair flopping into his eyes. “But I am being direct when I say our goal is containment. There isn’t a crime to solve, only the potential for disaster.” 

He rises at that, hands his cup to Rester with a quiet _please_ and _thank you_ , and shuffles away to the window. The whispering behind Near grows quieter as he leans forward, tilting open a bag thrown against the glass and sliding out a wooden frame. 

The puzzle is pure white, save for the L at the corner. The cornerstone of the picture. The Task Force, the SPK, they gravitate around L. He’s supposed to see everything clearly, supposed to see the picture in its entirety. He covers the L with his hand. It’s impossible to solve the picture without his piece; it’s impossible to solve the puzzle if he is a piece. Not alone.

\---

The President is calmer in person. Near speculates it could be the murder weapon lying between them, but he’s also assumed the abrasive persona was discarded once the man was alone, with no cameras to mooch to. He squints at Near like a collector sizing up a cracked vase. The meeting was scheduled in a rush, as their trip to Japan was impending. Which seemed to be the problem.

“And that is everything the shinigami told you?” Near looks past the gold curtains onto the lawn, not bothering to keep eye contact. He half-expects peacocks to strut around. 

“Yeah. Are you going to tell me what’s going on? We offered you citizenship for your assistance, not a free pass to do nothing,” the President says. “Or to leave the country with government property.”

Rester tightens his jaw, his demeanor more brittle than usual at this behavior. Near agrees with that assessment. The President acts big for a man who just spent 4% of his country’s total assets for nothing. His team’s political leanings play no part in this investigation but for their sanity, and his own, Near would like to keep this as short as possible. He wouldn’t have even bothered to meet the man if not for the unaddressed threat lying in a stack of crumpled paper on the President’s desk. 

“I came to this country under a different administration and under no written agreement. Anything between your predecessor and I was non-binding.” He pulls a knee to his chest, settling his gaze on the Golf Club Championship trophy sitting by the portrait of Thomas Jefferson. “I also have every intention of cooperating with the American government.”

The President raises a few pages in his fist. “Then why are you taking these?”

Near doesn’t blink, glancing over to the man. “I have greater authority granted by Interpol to take the pages for further studies. They will be essential in understanding why the resurrections are happening. Also, many countries have had pages appear. There’s nothing that ties them specifically to the United States.”

“Unlike Interpol, I know what Kira’s power is. Are these Death Note pages?” 

“They may be.” Near refocuses on the golf trophy. “I don’t have a physical Death Note to compare them to. And if they were. . .” 

He takes a page and starts folding it. Smiles. “Would you risk your life by claiming them?” 

The President lets them leave with the pages and Near reminds himself to never underestimate self-preservation as a motive.

\---

Self-preservation. Aizawa approaches him on the balcony of that first day, once all the others have agreed and left. Near doesn’t admire views. He’s seen a skyline in almost every continent, mostly during those early years where he was shaking off Tokyo’s shadow. Being back is like crawling back into the shell of his younger skin. He doesn’t know what to do with the boy the others see in him, the one who waited for pieces to fall into place.

“I‘m not joining you, L.” Aizawa settles his hands on the barrier. He doesn't look much different from nine years ago. “I won’t get involved in any Death Note business.” The lights create constellations of their own, interconnecting city paths surrounding them. The evening is clear enough for Near to see both the ground and the night sky.

“I have a family to think about,” he says. It’s that simple. The choice is clear. The choice had also been clear to his predecessor, Chief Soichiro Yagami, but Aizawa is his own man. There are sacrifices he isn’t willing to make.

Near’s hair flows in the cool evening wind. “You’re a good man, Aizawa-san.” He turns his back on the city and meets him eye to eye. “Thank you for coming.” 

The nod they share draws a boundary. They are very different men. 

\---

Every spring, the leaves regrow onto branches, mimicking the last year, and the year before that. It’s indiscriminate, uncontrollable causality. A foundation to rely on for multitude of lives spilling into each other. Spring’s final moments bid goodbye as the world collectively loses its mind.

Everyone is driven by personal benefit. Near understands this. What he used to forget is that motives change. Benefit is reweighed and priorities shift. The Death Note had warped priorities, shifted lifespans, and now. He sets the shinigami puppet next to the Kira one. The Death Note reverses its judgements. The foundation has splintered.

Still, he’s established enough to understand the general rules of the victims’ return. He’s just missing a piece before he can take further action over the pages. The cranes bubble him from the team. The original Task Force members seem irritated by his mess and Near can only wonder how L worked to make him appear strange in comparison. Matsuda paces by him most often, carrying around paperwork more times than necessary in his trip between the printer and his desk. They’ve been gathering more information on the surviving minority of victims.

The pages are kept close to them, but not in their possession. They were collected in a variety of ways, depending on the facility they were held in. By hand, by submission, etc. A few were collected by force. This is the only marked difference between the majority and minority he could detect: the use of force. The ones that disintegrated had their pages taken as soon as they appeared or were physically forced to give them up. 

_And that is the problem_. Near furrows his brow, settling his 276th crane on his lap. 

It isn’t a clear division. It’s close, but there are a few prisoners where the use of force didn’t affect their survival. It isn’t random enough to be probability, so there has to be a guideline. He’s sure of it. 

Stacks of pages fly in. They aren’t making progress. Near lies on the floor and throws cranes at the ceiling.

“Excuse me, L?” 

Near pauses, arm mid-toss. “Yes, Matsuda-san?” 

Matsuda stands directly over him. “What you said about not finding the person responsible. I can’t agree.” 

Near rolls up onto his knees, sighing through his hair before pushing it aside. “It’s not a matter of responsibility, Matsuda-san. Rule-changing can only be the work of a shinigami.” 

“Still,” Matsuda says, “it doesn’t make sense why! What if there’s a person out there with some kind of. . . anti-Death Note?” 

Near stares at him. “A Life Note?”

“Why not?” Matsuda plops down next to him, almost crushing a few paper cranes. Near sees Gevanni side-eye the two of them from his desk. 

“It just doesn’t make sense why a shinigami would bring people back to life. So that’s why I think there has to be someone behind it, like Kira and the Death Note’s shinigami. Someone who probably lost someone to Kira or maybe just hates Kira.” 

It’s not the soundest idea. It was improbable for any person to act without any bias and no victim had been skipped. If a person was in control of the process, it was unlikely they would choose _every_ victim to come back. 

_Although._ Near flicks a crane toward the window. _There is something that bothers me_. 

“It shouldn’t be possible to come back to life,” Near says. 

“Yeah, there was a rule against it, right?” Matsuda brightens up at his response.

“Yes. Even in the A-Kira case, there wasn’t a complete rewriting of a rule. They created an additional one, with no precedent,” Near muses. He wishes Matsuda would move a little farther away so that he could reform his crane circles. 

He shouldn’t be unfair. This has been a good reminder of the elements he hasn’t been focusing on. He selects a crane, restlessly turning it in his palms. Could it be an additional rule and not a rewrite? 

_How alive could they be?_

He stills.

“Matsuda-san,” Near considers, “have you ever seen a Shinigami die?”

\---

He’s created double the cranes in the past hour. How he managed to miss this insight for so long, he could scream. It’s a delicate balance but the tower of cranes reaches above his head after another hour. 

He relied on faulty assumptions for nearly a week and a half. This is unacceptable. There’s no one waiting for him to slip up, no one watching for weakness. He’s gotten complacent. 

Near can’t afford this. Not with what’s coming.

\---

Ripples creating waves, driven by survival. The team accepts the new rule outline Near has laid out, Matsuda beaming in the corner over his contribution. They are just about to discuss what to announce to Interpol, Near rubbing away the remainder of his two-hour nap, when Matsuda’s phone rings. 

“Hello?” Matsuda asks. “Oh, Aizawa-san! Wait, I’ve got him.”

He holds the phone out to Near. 

“Aizawa-san?” Near twirls a strand around his finger.

“L, there’s a woman here. Says she needs to talk to L immediately, about the Kira case.” Aizawa pauses. “She says her name is Naomi Misora.”

The clock ticks. 

Near smiles. Another piece slides into place. “Send her over please.”

\---

There is no benevolent higher power. There is no plan other than the one you make yourself.

 _And the ones others make for you_. Near clutches beads in the dark. _The ones you have no choice in._

\---

Halle left three hours ago. Near can’t sleep. There’s something he doesn’t want to examine too closely. 

He’d lied to her. 

Only partially. Only for something he wasn’t even certain on. Only a feeling. 

_As for why they would change it_. . .

Near opens his laptop. There’s a file he hasn’t opened in years, skimmed the first time it was sent. The coroner was a trustworthy man. Good at his job. Near had read his other reports and found them accurate. 

_I don’t know._

**Light Yagami**. Cause of Death: Heart Failure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been holding onto this chapter for so long! I can promise Chapter 3 is on its way, although it's been giving me a ton of trouble so far. I always love hearing your thoughts and I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Quick taste of Chapter 3: 
> 
> End of spring. B plays a game Near might call love, as spelled out in the novels piled in the Wammy library’s romance section. Each rose has been snipped from the bushes, twisted into a garland that rests at A’s door; each thorn meticulously removed. Roger finds them embedded in his office chairs throughout the next weeks. Near finds one in the playroom carpet where he usually sprawls and wonders if Mello has been complaining to B again.


	3. aestimati sumus ut oves occisionis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seasonal changes. Near crafts, aware of the larger hands that have made him.

> **_Of course he wanted to make a copy, of course he wanted to create a backup._ **
> 
> **_Anyone would feel the same_.**

L’s reputation fluctuates with the different figures behind the title. L was fickle, Yagami was incompetant, Near is steadfast. _Securable_ , Interpol dubs him. He, unlike the others, was raised for this.

\---

Naomi Misora looks like her photograph. She carves him with a precise eye and Near returns the favor. Her driver’s license, fifteen years expired, is in his hand; her note is crumpled in hers. 

_Naomi Misora, Suicide, Starting at 1:25 p.m. on January 1_. . .

He reads the words between the creases of her fist. Two cooling cups of earl grey rest on the table between them. There are many methods to commit suicide, a few options that completely destroy the body in the process. It’s an ironic choice, given her history. Steam rises to the ceiling and Misora is holding her shoulders back from sagging into her chest. 

It’s the first time he’s managed to see one of the resurrected up close. He half-expected to see the inhuman aspects immediately, to be able to tell the monstrous from what used to be flesh and blood. There’s nothing apparent in the way Misora leans against the chair, nor the white-tinge in her knuckles around paper, gloves discarded onto the table. She’s exactly as she was in the photograph. Young, aware, alive.

“Do you remember anything after that, Misora-san?” Near asks.

Misora flickers back from her thoughts. “No. I—” She swallows back something that shows in her eyes. “I found myself in front of police headquarters as soon as I lost consciousness.” 

He has updated her on the basic facts. It is 2019. The original L was killed by Kira. Light Yagami was eventually found and killed. None of these facts phase her in the slightest and Near suspects she figured out most of the story as soon as she laid eyes on him. He had been ten during the L.A.B.B. case, nine when Beyond had left Wammy’s. His appearance as L could only be explained by certain events.

His explanation on the shinigami does give her pause. 

“The shinigami are connected to their Death Notes.” She releases her death grip on her note. It drifts onto the tabletop, delicately resting on the saucer of her full teacup. 

“Yes, the human owner is possessed by a shinigami till their ownership ceases. The bond between the Death Note and a shinigami is in place till destruction or death.” Near has not touched the paper. It’s good to be cautious. 

“And these prisoners have disintegrated when separated from their notes?”

“At a certain distance.” He watches her with wide eyes, Misora narrowing her own. “And not only in those circumstances. However, each time can be explained with one of the rules regarding the shinigami.” 

She punctures the air with a heavy breath. There’s a sliver of shakiness behind it but she conceals it with a practiced ease. 

“You think I’m a shinigami.” Misora says.

“Misora-san, I’m not sure what you are, but it’s the best explanation for your return.” Near responds. 

Her eyebrow twitches before she schools her face back into respectful placidity, trembles in her hand smoothed out into a firm grip on the table’s edge. 

He registers the movement, pauses to give them both a moment, and continues his questions. “Can you see lifespans? Names?” 

Misora shakes her head. “No. There’s nothing different in my perception, or any of my other senses.” 

“And you have no memory of being in Mu?” He removes the sugar spoon from the small jar and sets it against his cup’s rim. It trembles.

“Nothing.” Her jaw tightens. “I was dead.” She furrows her brow. “And it’s unlikely I would have retained any form of consciousness, or remained myself.”

“Yet you still have all of your other memories.”

There’s a flicker of consideration in her eyes. Misora smiles, empty. “That doesn’t mean anything in terms of whether I survived death.”

Smudged ink bleeds from the note while condensation slides down their lukewarm teacups. Near counts the drops forming rings on white porcelain. They’re following the same line of thought. 

“Once dead, they can never come back to life.” He recites, fingers leaving his hair to rest on the cup handle. “I considered that they could be imitations or copies of the victims. Hearing from you has lowered my suspicions, but it’s impossible to deny the original Naomi Misora is gone.”

Near silences the sugar spoon, wobbling against the cup’s rim, with a fingertip. “You’re not human.” 

The pink tinge in her skin contrasts against the blunt shine of the porcelain, the dingy white of the tablecloth. She flexes, a restrained shudder traveling up her wrist, and lets go of the table. He removes his fingertip.

A deflection, settling her face back into impassivity. “Light Yagami. How did he die?” 

Near’s pulse throbs in his cold fingers. He curls them into his hair, cup left alone. “A heart attack. His name wasn’t in the notebook before I burned it.” 

“But his shinigami had their own Death Note.”

The warehouse. The shinigami had observed them all without lifting a finger, the standoff reflected in the fishbowl gleam of those red eyes. Light Yagami, humiliated, rolling on the ground, crying out for the women he had abandoned. And then—

“Yes,” he says. “You’re correct.” 

It’s a good deflection. She’s arrived at the conclusion quickly. He blows a strand of hair from his eyesight. Misora straightens and wraps her hand around her cup, eyes accessing the dark liquid inside, cold, before settling back on Near. She resembles a statue or a ghost, pale and still and stark. 

No judgement lies in her gaze, only a mix of grief and dormant fury. “So this isn’t over.” 

“It never was. Officially.” He watches her take a small sip, composed in everything but the details. A slight scratch against the glazed surface from her nails pinching a little too tightly. “I’d like for you to join our team, Misora-san.” 

She breaks the calm look for a frown, genuine in the wrinkles it forms around her brow. “You never closed the case?”

“There was no one to arrest.” Near twists a strand tightly against his forefinger. “If you’re concerned about how I’ve handled the case, we can discuss this further once you’ve settled in. I can set you up a room in—”

“No.” The liquid sloshes over the rim as Misora places her cup back onto the saucer, a sharp crack reverberating through the room from the porcelain hitting each other. “People never knew he _died_? They thought he escaped?”

“It was a gesture for his family.” Near sighs, hand pausing before he tugs too hard against his skull. 

She takes note of it. Sharp, precise. 

She grabs her gloves. “L, I’m not going to work for you if you withhold information.”

“Misora-san,” Near finds himself scrambling against missteps, eyes behind his hair. 

It’s necessary to show vulnerability as a gesture of good will. However, Misora has driven them in a direction he’d rather not think about. He drops his hand. His nails trace the lines of his fingerprints under the table.

He can see how childish it looked. Hiding the information like a vengeful brat. Angry to the point of irrationality. It’s painful to re-express the sentiment nine years later, feelings that had once overwhelmed and numbed, aged enough to dissect.

“I didn’t wish to credit Yagami anymore than necessary.” He half-expects to see Gevanni’s disgusted glare in Misora’s face when he peeks back out.

The discomfort is palpable but there’s no shock underneath it. She meets his eyes. The strained concession is a wordless agreement. Misora releases her gloves and Near removes the unused sugar spoon from his cup. 

He holds up three fingers, weariness sinking back in. “You have 82 hours to either hunt a human and write their name or find a human to possess your note.” Two. “Remain close to your possessor.” One. “Keep your note intact.” He adjusts the hair tickling his cheek. “I’d make sure there’s a clear exchange of ownership. We’ve had issues with this.”

“Understood.” Misora shifts in her seat. She’s alert in a manner Near wishes he had the energy to imitate. “I’ll never use it.” 

He believes her. It’s part of the problem, that he believes her. Near has never put such limits on himself. Even if he’s claimed otherwise, the priority has always been to protect himself. Then others. There’s no reward in playing fair. Misora takes the wrinkled scrap left on the tablecloth and folds it into her jacket. 

He hopes they won’t butt heads over the next decisions he’ll have to make but it comes with resignation. If Yagami does return, he’ll need to play nice, need the best minds on his side and following his direction. 

A flutter of realization fractures the anger she’s brought into the room. Her thought process has left the two of them. He takes a moment to register the difference in her eyes, looking through the shuttered window. There’s a different woman underneath the training, the restrained shock and fury. Without the rage, the calculation, Naomi Misora cracks open and he isn’t sure of what he sees. What’s left when it’s gone.

Hope without fear burrowed within the core. The sense memory floods in of bittersweet wrappers he’d find on hardwood floors, a curious lick at the melted remains when no one saw, the heartbeat thud of emotion he couldn’t define, engulfing him, leaving as it strikes like the tide clinging to sand. It’s here and gone, only the shadow of sugar grease coating his fingers. It’s the beginning of fragile potential. A chance. 

She turns back to him, the moment passed, shield back in place. “I’m bringing my partner to the team, L. He’ll carry my note.”

Near nods, a faint lump building in his throat. Misora rises from the table. 

A final blow, gloved hand gentle on the chair. “L, have you told the others about Yagami?” 

He doesn’t react. “No. I’m sure some of them will reach their own conclusions soon enough.”

She tugs her leather jacket tighter around her shoulders and hesitates. She’s thinking about Light Yagami and his deceptive charm, how easy it was to trust a killer, how she should have known better from experience, how particular trauma sticks with you till it rots you from the inside out, and how she’s beaten it before. 

“He was only a,” The word on the tip of her tongue doesn’t fit anymore. Not in these new times. But she never knew him older than a boy, did she? A sweet-talking boy with the face of an angel. “A man, L.”

She thinks she understands. Near could scoff but it would come out weaker than he’d wanted. More of a choke than a solid feeling, a hiccup bringing up more questions than silencing them. So he does nothing. 

Misora strides out after a quick bow and finds Raye Penber in less than three hours.

\---

End of winter. Spring is unpredictable in England, fickle breezes swinging between warmth and chill. Near feels nothing at five years old. They’ve kept the fires roaring for longer than usual, but he’s only been here for the end of things, just as the threads are about to be rewoven into place. It’s in the following years that he can pick out the indiscrepancies. For now, this is normal: adults bustling into the east wing, children being kept in their rooms at the slightest sniff, quiet whisperings about time and predictions, little bets on when it’ll end. Restlessness passes through them like a fever but merely strokes a fingertip over him before vanishing in his new comforts.

A sits in the corner of the playroom, book in her lap, while Near works on his first puzzles in firelight. It’s too dark to read. He isn’t able to see her expression. Later, when the outline of her face fades into black, he’ll think back to the shadow resting in the back of the room, book unopened. Near doesn’t flinch when a ball skims past his head, a fight breaking out in the other corner.

“Hey, it’s okay.” A smooths the child’s hair back and murmurs soft nonsense. 

The sobbing dies down. Yellow blond hair and hiccuping sniffles leave the playroom, Near vaguely registering its departure while finishing the puzzle. 

E doesn’t make it to the first buds blooming. Sighs collect into their own form of closure. It’s as if a weight has lifted from every adult, peeling back posters till a bedroom’s walls are again, white. He wonders how long she held on before he arrived. She’s buried on the grounds and no one tells Near about the ceremony, but he watches from the window as they lie store-bought lilies across fresh dirt. He shuffles to the gravestone once it’s over.

He tucks the poster left in the trash, creased into a sharp-edged square, into ripples of white petals wrapped in cellophane. It’s discarded with the shriveled flowers by the end of the week.

Near meets B the following week, crouching at the grave. He pivots as Near creeps forward and smiles, full grin. His eyes solidly focus on Near’s chin and never go farther up. 

“Hey.” It’s similar enough to make Near pause. B tilts his head, tries smiling again, a little restrained at the corners. “It’s ok.”

Near peers past him. Five sparrows lie on the dirt, arranged in a circle like a crown at E’s headstone. 

B meets his eyes. His stare is a solid, cold thing, settling across Near’s forehead. 

Near turns and pads back to the playroom, crossing through the mud from the morning drizzle and staining his white socks. Fast enough that flecks of dirt speckle his pants. B appears everywhere afterwards. Trailing A in the hallways as if he’d always been there, just behind her shoulder. Maybe he was, and Near had never seen, not in the dark. 

B is too large for his own body, slouching to A’s height. He speaks in reverent echoes and barking giggles. Near hides at the sounds of their voices, intermingled into a briar of words. As A smiles, B lingers, smiling. Not quite perfect. 

Near finds himself going out again once the first roses peel themselves apart and the sun hides in an approaching storm, already here. Just waiting. The smell of rain permeates the grounds when he reaches the headstone. 

The tiny bones lie in fragments, scattered by animals and wind, but the outlines are there. The offering remains. 

\---

_Raye Penber is a liability._ Near realizes this in fragments, small encounters with the man who settles by Misora’s side with battered pride. He is intelligent enough and thankfully maintains connections to the other FBI agents killed by Kira, but his fretting and posturing emphasize his unease rather than conceal it. He greets Near with a handshake, firm and assessing. How American of him to open collaboration like a business deal. His conversations with Misora do not pacify Near’s uncertainty over his presence. 

“This isn’t safe for you.” He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care that the rest of the team can hear them. Neither is a good sign.

Misora bears her devotion like a badge. They whisper something soft to each other, sprinkled in the daily motions, newly established. Near doesn’t catch the meanings but tracks the aftermath. She smiles instinctively, easy to read in the glow of rediscovery and the shaking tenderness of settling new foundations. Or repairing old ones.

It’s that Penber dulls Misora’s edges. Near needs her in that brutality she’d wielded with questions aimed to kill, unapologetic in what damage might be caused. She’s to be a method into getting to the corners he’s unable to touch. 

Penber grasps onto a file she’s holding. “Let me handle it.”

There’s a hint of hesitation. She’s on the edge of snatching it back before her shoulders shrink. Misora nods, face softened. Care and appeasement. 

Near frowns at his puppets, at his own half-finished one lying in scraps at his feet. 

Marked discomfort remains in his own interactions with Misora. It’s in the absence he represents, the L she knows from voice fragments. Near is used to this treatment. However, Misora studies him without his accolades painting the image the others see. She narrows her eyes at his dice and army of toys, the way he lounges on the floor. The new L is an insect, pinnable, dissectable, slightly irritating. An unwelcome, if natural, presence in the room. 

She pierces the others with the same clinical eye. Not unempathetic. She bounces strategies with Halle, an implicit camaraderie in their gravitation, seeking the other’s insights. The friendliness isn’t an act. Halle swipes against her tablet’s touch screen and Misora watches intently, eyes darting across the unfamiliar applications, smiling when Halle lets her try it herself. She just aims like Near aims himself, to understand, categorize, and implement. 

He calls it a day. Quick goodbyes are tossed between them while he sits in the back, prodding at his revised work with the sewing needle. Misora leans on Penber. The prodding sharpness disappears in her smile. It’s genuine. 

It’s confusing. Near compares his discarded puppets, variations of his face gazing back at him as everyone filters out. 

There’s something usable in this mess. If only he could decide which parts are the essential ones, then he can discard the rest. Halle enters at seven and Near’s still crouched on the floor, pulling white thread through his cotton skull. She leaves a full coffee mug on the counter on the other side of the room. Blood rushing back into his legs is a familiar kick when shaking himself awake; almost dropping his mug when Matsuda bumps into him on his way in is not.

The black liquid mirrors his half-lidded eyes, the cracks in the ceiling. This building has been left behind by its sleek countrymen surrounding them. They’ve taken to accepting it with a similar disinterest that tourists have while studying an informational panel. It’s a tower past its prime. Nothing to do but wait for it to collapse.

Misora absorbs everything in such rapt attention, careful in splitting details into smaller puncture points of information. Layers of unease. She looks out the windows into clean and new offices of workers her age, bustling, seen and yet uncaring about the various eyes trained on them. 

Acceptance is the first step towards losing sight of it. The loose threads in a tightly knit world.

Near cradles the mug in his shuffle back to the puppet circle. He’s been too docile in his position at the top. Not enough challenge to keep him sharp. The A-Kira incident and the recent set back nag at his mind. He needs practice before larger players enter the game.

Misora sizes up his observations but remains quiet. She’s forming her own conclusions, he’s sure.

The evening recap is as unceremonious as usual, Near standing on the step stool Gevanni set up at the front of the room. It’s a dingy and cramped room for a team of nine. Metal folding chairs squish up against each other along a long plastic folding table. Halle, Rester, and Gevanni claim one side while the original Task Force meet their eyes across the table. Penber and Misora share the narrow end. They’ve divided themselves into sitting groups.

The late SPK hadn’t formed cliques. Near tightens the hair around his finger, writing out the new guidelines to finish out their meeting. Black marker residue streaks along the side of his hand. He wrinkles his nose when he finishes and steps down from his stool, glancing behind him to the filled table.

“Any questions?” He scans the faces and settles on Matsuda’s fidgeting pencil motions, tapping against his notepad.

“Has anyone tested the notes?” Penber asks from his seat. “Is it possible that they’ve lost the effects of the Death Note?”

The rest of the team shifts in their folding chairs. The metal squeaks add to Near’s irritation. 

“No, Penber-san. We won’t have to.” He closes his eyes. “There will be a prisoner who figures out the rules before we can take it from them. Until then, we should continue to act as if they are dangerous.”

Ide slaps Matsuda’s pencil down. “What do you mean _will_? None of them should have any idea what’s happening.”

Restraining a sigh, Near picks the marker back up. “Probability is one factor. Kira killed thousands and it’s possible one of them would try writing on the note. That has always been a risk.” He scrunches his nose at the smell as he uncaps it with a pop. Another reason to upgrade this building’s technology as soon as possible. 

Two strokes. A line with two curves. Misora stills while Penber tightens his jaw. 

“I’m sure most of you are familiar with the L.A.B.B case from 2002.” He circles the letter. “Beyond Birthday died of a heart attack on January 21, 2004. And that gives us about two days until his possible return.” The marker tip pauses at the circle’s end. “He’s more than intelligent enough to determine what the note is. When we capture him, I’d advise most of you to stay out of his sight till I can take his note.”

Halle starts, “L, you can’t be serious—” 

“When were you planning on telling us about this?” Ide asks, accusation lacing the words. 

“We’re not leaving you alone with him.” Gevanni’s stern tone is amplified by the glare he shoots toward Ide. It’s returned. 

“Wait, why are we capturing a serial killer?” Matsuda asks. “Shouldn’t we be warning the Americans about this?”

“Why are we even considering it?” Penber splays his palm onto the plastic tabletop, the rickety legs trembling under pressure. “Birthday won’t have many names to write down, even if he figures out how to use the note. He’s disfigured and he can’t hide. The FBI can handle him.”

“L has his reasons.” Near appreciates the irony in Gevanni’s support. 

Ide shakes his head. “That doesn’t help if he doesn’t communicate with us.” 

They argue about him as if he isn’t in the room. Only Mogi and Rester keep their thoughts to themselves with an uneasy silence. Near remains impassive, fingers knotting into the fabric of his pajama pants till they ache. Misora is quiet. Her eyes fix on the board, the B. 

“If L gets his note,” Matsuda darts his eyes around the room, trying to gage the tension, “doesn’t that mean this killer will be attached to him?”

“Another reason why we should let the FBI handle it!” Penber points to him. Matsuda shrinks back in his chair.

Halle clears her throat and rises. 

“Beyond Birthday evaded L for months. Even after we warn the FBI, he’ll get out. But I don’t think this is wise, L.” She nods toward Near, waiting. “He could kill you with or without the note.”

He takes a breath. Halle sits back down, her expectant look unwavering.

“Birthday has the Shinigami eyes,” Near says. No one speaks up.

He flexes his hands, automatically reaching for his hair. “I’m only suggesting that the members he’s already been exposed to deal with him.” 

L, N, and R surround the B. Penber slumps against his chair while Misora poises herself on the edge of hers. They avoid each other’s eyes. There’s no one else who can do it. 

“Any objections?” Near asks.

Penber stews, saying nothing. Years of being subordinate to the FBI have taught him to be obedient in the face of self-destruction. Near can’t say he’s displeased, even if he’s a bit disappointed. 

Near takes a moment to analyze the shift in Misora’s face. She looks ready to strangle him. It’s more or less what he expected from pushing her towards danger so quickly. The ends of her metal chair press against the thin carpet, syrupy anger dripping out of her serious demeanor, held back by deep-rooted restraint.

He meets her eyes and smiles, waits for the dissection. “If there are none, we can end the meeting for today.” 

Penber rests his hand on her arm. She stills. The hesitation is there; the rest is instinctual. She blinks and Near recognizes the absence. Sharp points bristling, and then acceptance. The anger isn’t there, no trace of it in her smoothed out expression, glancing at Penber with a question. Gentle, selfless. She doesn’t stand up.

Near returns his attention back to the board. Penber carves her aim into shards, her aimed brutality into nothing. 

Empty motions help him think clearly. The new lines he draws leave the group untouched, planning alone as the team filters out through the door, not a word in his direction. His priorities are separate from the others. It’s nothing to be disappointed by. 

No need for challenges when there’s normalcy waiting after the clean-up. He lies in the circle of puppets and stares at his unfinished face, needle in hand. Tries to visualize a fitting expression. No need for vengeance in a time of mercy. 

Penber and Misora tuck their swapped notes out of sight but Near finds each of them staring at the neat scrawls, reading the other’s damnation. They will never be separated again for as long as they live. 

There’s nothing left to grieve over. 

_And that_ , he stabs through his eye, _is a liability_.

\---

End of spring. B plays a game Near might call love, as spelled out in the novels piled in the Wammy library’s romance section. Each garden rose has been snipped from the bushes, twisted into a garland that rests at A’s door; each thorn meticulously removed. Roger finds them embedded in his office chairs throughout the next weeks. Near finds one in the playroom carpet where he usually sprawls and wonders if Mello has complained to B again. 

They fit well into each other, Near thinks. It fits the patterns he reads of lithe young women and domineering roguish men, circling around each other, although A is more bony than lithe, more likely to read in the common study till early morning than faint into cushions. He’s only eight when he huddles away from the others and reads to pass the time between assignments. Cosmic horizons and calculus interlaced with slices of Bronte while crouched between the shelf and window ledge.

Gothic mansions and wide skirts and B looming over A on the grounds underneath the old oak, her cardigan puffing up her small frame in the wind. Roger tries to coax Near to play with the others but has long given up on those two. Near doesn’t avoid the others out of shyness. Only boredom, having to engage in simple games while there’s puzzles to solve, and he doesn’t find being _better_ amusing like Mello does, toying with their classmates, waving affection in their noses. It comes so easy to them. Say jump and they ask _how high?_

Mello adores it too, their attention, these games. Near can tell. A slides a stray daisy behind B’s ear and says something that escapes Near from the second floor window. 

_Must be nice_ , he muses, _to have someone to talk to_. 

He’s not lonely. He’s afraid he’s missed something crucial.

Ink bleeds through his paper, five thousand words on the string theory landscape, and he slips out of the library with blue stains over his hands. Mello lies slumped over his desk on his way out. Near considers waking him up but pulls back from touching the other’s hand, sprawled open against his elbow. 

Mello has never touched him before. It feels wrong to break that barrier, leave his blue-smudged mark on that palm. Those blue eyes opening up, a hint of surprise. Then steel. 

He would rather leave without having Mello glare at him one last time for the day, so he does. 

It’s past curfew. The hallway is draped in darkness, but he knows the steps by memory. It’s the only path connecting the library to the bedrooms. He barely sees past his own hand while walking, careful to stay quiet. 

Gasps stutter into the night. Soft breathing. B’s hands around A’s throat. Near freezes as his eyes adjust, paper rustling in his sudden step backward. A burst of panic hits him as B angles his head in his direction but Near is just out of sight, still half-hidden behind the corner connecting the two hallways. A arches against the wall. 

Doesn’t remove her own hands from B’s arms. Holding him in place. Shaky sighs.

Near creeps fully back behind the corner, averts his gaze, and waits. The sound of raspy breathing fills the empty space between them. He controls his own, only the smallest puff of air leaving him. Funny how his own head feels lighter, standing here, hands trembling, controlling his breaths. 

There’s whispers exchanged. Small noises of acknowledgement. They aren’t moving. A cold stone drops in his stomach as he sets his paper on the hardwood, sitting on his knees. He’ll have to wait it out.

Silence. Near stops breathing. Closes his eyes and listens. A soft wheeze, or whimper. He can’t tell. Orange glow seeps in from where he left, burns through his eyelids, the library door gently resting on the doorframe. 

He hadn’t wanted to wake Mello. They’re not breathing. They haven’t left. These are all true. Near blinks.

Hazy vision. It’s so quiet. Hands pressed against his chest as if it’ll keep his lungs from shivering. Near imagines air as heavy velvet on the tongue, can’t trust himself to open his mouth without gasping. 

The light peels farther along the hardwood. He turns his head and meets Mello’s bleary eyes. 

Head outlined by light. Mello looks like haloed angels left in the stained glass, remnants of the bones Wammy’s skeleton was built upon. The holy ground this used to be. 

His mind goes blank. Near controls himself on instinct, his chest still while his eyes dilate against the light. He blinks, a stray tear trickling down to his chin. It surprises him as much as it confuses Mello, stilling in the doorframe. 

Near glances back into the darkness, momentary relief from the surge of anxiety creeping into his throat. And then again to Mello. 

He looks for a moment more, face blurred by the stinging in Near’s eyes. He reaches for the doorknob and slams the door shut.

Relief pierces him. Near gasps in, eyes fluttering, rolling back against the pain. 

The timing’s correct. He slaps his hand over his mouth once the door clicks shut. His chest heaves in sync with the rattling cough down the hallway, B muttering some curse, transitioning into cooing whispers. 

Prickling teardrops slide down Near’s cheek but he doesn’t bother to wipe them. He can feel every muscle hanging off his bones. Near freezes in place for five more minutes, two pairs of footsteps fading into black, before stumbling back to his room. He drops onto his bed and wakes at noon. 

His hands are still stained blue. A enters the playroom in the evening, turtleneck on underneath her usual sweater. It doesn’t completely hide the purple-blue fingertip at the end of her jaw. 

He scrubs his hands pink, rewrites in black. 

\---

“L, may I speak to you in private?” Her voice is even, like placid water.

Misora Massacre. Strange nickname. He holds her puppet with a discerning eye, a slight frown crafted on her disapproving face. It’s accurate enough.

She drops to her knee to look him in the eye. “L. I need to talk to you.”

Penber’s attention is elsewhere when Near glances up from his puppets, focused on preparing the information Near’s asked of him. He nods, padding after Misora as she leaves the main room. 

His muted sock-covered feet muffle the echoes of her boots hitting the metal flooring. She stops in the empty walkway. Near takes the moment to look over Tokyo, glimmering outside of the ceiling-height window. Fluorescent haze drowns out the stars but leaves the building dark. Misora blends into the black. It’s her natural environment. 

“I can do this without Raye.” She squares her shoulders together, as if she isn’t towering over him already. “We’ll return each other’s notes beforehand.”

Near raises his eyebrows before averting his eyes back outside, where the world goes on as normal, balancing on a needle they hold. Even as it teeters on the point, there’s nothing but rainbow lights and voices, repeating similar sentences till every word curls into itself. He can empathize with boredom. This is different. It’s emptier. 

“Fine.” He can deal with it. 

Misora waits for a response that he isn’t going to give. Near doesn’t blink.

“Would you like to hear my revised plan?” She relaxes, a glint of irritation casting a sharper tone than her face would suggest. 

“By all means.” He switches to English. “Take it away, Misora.”

Penber isn’t pleased with the new developments and Near practices not listening as Misora soothes whatever wounded pride he has in the back of the room. Misora will be okay. She’s handled B before. Near adds furrowed brows to Penber’s puppet before flicking it across the floor.

There’s no predicting how the years have changed B, assuming there was anything left to change. 

Misora erases Near’s smooth lines on the whiteboard and jots in fine green kanji with a pace that leaves blots of ink in a steady rap, rap, rap of frenzied ideas, spilling out. He restarts his puppet. Again, the long, tangled hair leading to an empty face. Calluses on his fingertips barely register the needle. 

“You don’t think I have my priorities straight.” 3 AM brings its peculiar energy. Misora remarks on his lack of confidence like the weather, not even bothering to look at him while finishing her last markings.

Near pauses in his sisyphean sewing. “You’re very competent, Misora-san. I respect your dedication.”

“No,” she says, “you appreciate that I’m working for you.”

The rapping stops. The board is filled in green. She’s baiting him.

He scans the board. “I’d revise the meeting portion. It’s best for me to talk to him alone.”

“He could easily kill you, L.” 

Near resumes his needlework. “He won’t.” 

Respect. That’s hypocritical of her to remark on. Her lack of trust is refreshing. Hard to do your best work surrounded by support. He does appreciate her contributions, the undaunted manner she prods at his sluggish demeanor. But it’s not out of respect for his mind or position. 

She swipes her palm over the last half of her work and restarts with the same intensity. It’s shorthand and logical leaps where she lands perfectly on her feet. She’s fast. He’s paying more attention than she thinks he is. 

“Do you prefer English?” Near asks as the sun crawls up and out of the horizon, the American accent flattening his words to a dull tone. 

“No, I don’t. I was raised in Japan.” Misora flips past another file of potential properties to meet B, her own accent much less of a flattening than a steady pace. It’s a rhythm Near has never mastered while living there. 

She discards a file, switching back to Japanese. “It feels like home.”

He peers at the discards. L had a few apartments in LA, the occasional house. All Misora has left in consideration are the warehouses. 

“He stayed in one of those during the LABB case, correct?” His original accent is much smoother, crisp, if almost unnatural on his tongue now. He’s rarely gone back to it outside of Wammy’s, even if nothing else has ever fit as well. 

Misora takes a moment to process the change. Judging the authenticity. 

“We never narrowed down where he was staying,” she finally says. 

Sounds about right. The small gestures of peace are enough to keep them working without a hitch. Black coffee over a foldout table and numbers piling away in the background.

Beyond Birthday escapes from confinement the day he returns, a string of warped bodies left behind. Near shares the photos with Misora the following night. She grimaces and returns them without a word. 

“Rester, please contact the FBI and send over the file I prepared.” He scans the photos again. 

B experiments with a vigor, a dictionary of sudden deaths, the different ways a body can betray itself spontaneously. And some deaths thrown in there for pure amusement. Decapitation by letter opener, impaled by elevator cable, Near can’t tell if some of them were written or inflicted personally or a mixture of both. B did love to see himself as a weapon. 

Near shoves the photos back into the folder. “Misora-san, are you ready for departure?” 

She hugs Penber once in the parking lot while Near waits by the car, Gevanni already at the wheel. It’s tight, Misora almost prying herself out of Penber’s arms with a shaky laugh, a final hand squeeze as they pass back the notes. They speak in low tones Near can’t hear. 

Rain hits them in slow gasps but it’s still rain; it gets violent. Misora drips water on the leather seating and squeezes her rolled up jacket. Near distracts himself with the droplets leaving trails on the window, emanating cold into his bones as he presses a palm to the glass. Gevanni makes no small talk in the front and Misora shakes from the air conditioning. 

He’s been focusing on the smallest things as he’s been getting older. August is approaching quickly, and quicker every year. It’s no longer necessary to fill up hollow months with detailed mundanities in the apocalypse, but then again, how much is there to focus on? Everything and nothing. Ever approaching, ceasefires burning up, he’s bored of the end. The end is overdue. 

“L.” She’s slicked her hair onto one shoulder and removed her gloves. “Are you alright?” 

“Fine, Misora-san.” They’re approaching a tunnel, light fanning outward and dissipating in the rain. 

The earth swallows them whole, in silence.

\---

End of summer. He strokes the wingtip of the taxidermy model. A bright parrot, mid ascension in the study. Under close inspection, the cracks give its hollowness away, black eyes only polished glass beads. 

Roger is visibly uncomfortable but says nothing to Near’s prodding. He rubs his hands together and turns back to the window, fire’s red gleam casting shadows onto the antique carpeting. The old oak is only a vague shape within it and disintegrating each second.

B had been the one to find A first. B had been there before the body was even cold. 

Somewhere on the grounds, Matt holds back Mello from chasing into the flames. B may be burning away in the midst of it. Given how close it is, Near wouldn’t be surprised if this was meant to consume them all. This flaking memory is sharp around the edges.

Fitting pyre for her. A. They’ll scatter her ashes in the garden, or what they’ll assume are her ashes. The remains of the oak and her crumbled bones, where B laid her down against the shade of a centuries-old tree one last time, will scar the grounds for a few months before snowfall hits. B will return in two weeks time from the city to smash her headstone and use the remains of it to break every stained glass window. She will belong entirely to him in time, memory and the death of it, her empty grave sprouting grass. This is later.

The parrot stares blankly in no discernable direction. It just moves towards flight as instinct, as escape. 

Nears listens for the incoming sirens, hears the guttural scream. 

\---

Wildfires climb along the Californian groves. It’s an apt season for a reunion. 

It’s the two of them in an empty box of a building. Near’s glad he could rely upon B’s attention to detail, the small adjustments to the uniforms of the FBI agents handling his cell leading him here, head cocked to the side as he takes it in. Near, on the ground, defenseless. 

B grins, all teeth. He wiggles a chunk of fabric by his face. 

L, embroidered into kevlar, stained. “You got my attention, Nate.” 

“Backup.” Near nods in his direction. “Good of you to make it.”

Neither of them take the bait. B resembles a doll left against the fireplace by a careless child. Melted, yet recognizable in the frozen smile and dot eyes. Undamaged, unchanged, but hollow, as in _deep_. Illusionistically empty. 

“Where’s Mihael?” B blinks, eyes going blank in thought. 

“Mello is dead,” he says, voice steady. “So is L.”

B laughs, each syllable pointed, crackling, cold. “I knew _that_. I knew it as soon as I saw you.” 

He sticks a finger in his mouth. “You shouldn’t be the one alive. You’ve cheated the numbers.” He releases it with a wet pop. “That’s very unfair.”

Near sits up, white dust sticking to the folds of his pants. “What do you mean?” 

“It shouldn’t be Miheal’s time.” He rubs the saliva onto the L. “It’s past yours.” 

Near is still processing B’s statement when the knife is drawn. 

“It’s the note, isn’t it? Funny little thing.” B laughs and it’s an echo of the past in all its jagged cruelty and off-key amusement. 

He fumbles it out of his pocket, still swinging the small pocket knife in his other hand, flicking it in rapidfire motion. “It doesn’t follow the numbers.” 

Near splays his palm over the cold concrete. Just to feel his skin react. “I need a favor.”

“That’s big of you. Asking me.” B tilts his head. “You’ve been bad. How else are you alive? Cheating death.” Tisk, tisk. 

“You need protection. You won’t be able to escape the FBI if I leave you here. Not with your face.” Cool, solid, and firm. He’s stable. “And your note will eventually run out of space.” 

“And you have more, right?” B’s gleeful tone echoes against the walls, unable to absorb itself in an empty room. 

He’s bluffing. Near’s sure of it. 

“Not on me.” Near relaxes again, curling his hand off the floor and rubbing the dust between his fingers. 

Click, click. The blade flicks in and out. 

B studies the end of it. “I’m not afraid to die again.”

“But you’d like to finish some business before you go.”

Click. “And what is that, N?”

“I can get you L.” 

The knife freezes. B’s lost in thought, piercing his own fingertip with the point. Blood drips onto the concrete. 

“I would like him. Very, very much.” He cuts a little deeper. “Maybe I’ll consider helping you. But this seems a little one-sided, N. Where’s my bargaining chip?” He pouts, sticks the blade in his mouth, and licks it clean. “What happened to a fair game?”

Near smiles. “Losers don’t get the advantage in the next round.” 

It’s snakelike, the way B unhinges the normal human face into grotesque imitations of emotion. Everything is amplified. He steps closer. 

“Maybe you want to pay up front.” There are a million clinical movements traveling through B’s eyes, and with a cut of his blade—

“Drop the knife.” Naomi’s arrived on time. 

She's at the backdoor, gun cocked. Having her arrive later than him was a risky step, but necessary. B perks up at the sound of her voice, pocket knife aimed at the ceiling. His mouth stretches wide.

“Nice to hear you again, Naomi.” He croons with equal amounts of sugar and slime, not looking back. “I see where you're coming from, N. I accept your terms."

Near keeps his eyes on B. "Misora, please come in." 

She can sense something is up. Near reminds that to himself in a rapid reassurance that he is _right_. This is going to go smoothly. Misora keeps her gun at her side, eyes steady on B. She’s more than capable of handling herself. Near grips the end of his hair, grittiness lingering on his fingertips. 

“Ryuzaki.” It’s not a greeting. She’s right behind him. 

B turns around, a creeping smirk draining away while he stares at her forehead. She takes the moment to pistol whip him. The knife drops with little fanfare.

The surprise is gone in a flash, B wrenching Misora’s arm down with him, her leg swerving to slam into his abdomen, both of them hitting the concrete. Her boot heel skids across white dust coating the floor. Near ducks his head into his shirt as it flies, like powdery snow, and floats in the air. 

The note. Misora slaps her palm over his bloodstained note and grips till it's on the edge of tearing. B doesn’t even hesitate. Two hands around her neck as he drags them back up. Squeezes like he’s trying to wring her skin dry. She gasps, rattling stones down a well, deep, empty, continuous. 

Lets go. Gun knocking against her knee, pressed against his, both kneeling, two pairs of eyes cutting each other into pieces. Paper fluttering, gone.

She goes for the eyes instead of his hands. B surges backwards before she can get a firm grip on his skull, the two of them spiraling back into the dust. He keeps his guard up around his face but it’s a few seconds lost. Her fingers grasp the gun’s grip. 

There’s no mercy in the crack of her muzzle smashing down on his forehead. She hits again while B tries to resurge. A whine rings through the warehouse. Misora is barely breathing, heaving but nothing coming in, nothing coming out. And again. 

B won’t stop curling his words into animal yelps, the slivers of laughter still contained in each syllable. He fumbles for the pocketknife before Misora presses it against her boot and kicks it away. She’s forcing herself to breathe. And again. 

Blood pools in dark droplets. Misora leans over B, arm half trembling. He’s clawing onto consciousness, focusing on her head, the crown of dust resting in her hair. Near meets her eyes and says nothing in response to her silent question. B chokes back some half-formed giggle. 

She reholsters the gun. Her heel digs into the concrete but the sway is there, a teetering of solid foundation. Her fingers pluck the note off the ground and brush the white dust off. 

“I think you gave me a concussion.” B struggles to his elbows, lolling his head against his shoulder. He crawls back into standing faster than anyone should. 

Near stands as well, picking the discarded pocket knife off the ground. Blood is slick around the point of it. He wipes it on his sleeve before flicking it closed. Misora tucks B’s note in her jacket, eyes firmly on B. 

Near slips the knife in his pocket. “Misora, could you take out your own note?”

B grins. Near averts his eyes. Like a ghost, B shows his true self at the worst moments.

“L?” Misora stiffens. Instinctively, she knows. 

Traps had been set, yes. B outstretches his hand to her, blood still sticking his hair to his forehead, yet she’s the one in the corner. 

“A trade, partner?” His voice is low, slurred, jagged. He winks slowly. 

“Misora.” Near is telling himself this is the right conclusion. It’s gone as planned. “I’m sure you can handle him.” 

It’s better to have them circle each other than allow both to run unchecked. He’s right. Misora stares past B at him. Near won’t allow himself to drop the gaze. 

She drops her note in B’s palm and he clutches it in a fist. There’s no room for regrets.

“This has been _fun_.” B sways back towards Near. “Can I have my knife back?”

“No.” 

He sends the notification for pick-up. B shrugs, a passing glance at the device in Near’s hands, and plops back down on the concrete. Misora doesn’t look at either of them, focusing on the door. B barks out a laugh, bubbling in something off-kilter. 

“N,” he says, “just one more thing.” A drop of blood trickles down to his chin. “Let’s go home.”

\---

End of fall. Snow envelops Wammy’s. Near sits and observes while children huddle around the computer, L’s voice a fuzz of mystery. Mello is by the window sill, leaning against the wall, chocolate bar in hand. It snaps in his mouth like the crackers handed out to them for the holidays. Near splits his attention while sliding another piece into place, watching both out of the corner of his eye.

B’s face is on the American news for a week’s cycle before people are tired of hearing about a captured serial killer. Beyond. Near mouths the word to test the shape of it with the ruined face on screen, finds that it doesn’t fit. None of it does. L didn’t mention him during his voice call and no one asked. For all B’s bluster, they’ve smoothed out his wrinkle in their collective history. 

Mello and Near are named the next successors in his absence. It’s only logical given their scores, even if L claims his choice was based off of one observation. Could he really dissect people that easily? Near twirls his hair and breathes in the artificial scented candle atmosphere, warm but grating on his nose. M and N. He scribbles the letters in the margin of his scrapwork and feels vaguely ashamed after doing so. The reasons escape him. 

Roger doesn’t stop lighting nauseating candles and the workload only increases with the new responsibility. Near finds Mello on the study’s couch on his eleventh birthday, his textbook toppled onto the carpet. He fixes the stray creases in the pages and sits by the couch’s legs. Near is nine, two years stretching between them like a chasm. He’s never been intimidated by Mello. Far from it now, sitting here by Mello’s head while he sleeps away the burnout. 

Mello doesn’t know his own limits. Near observes the furrow in his brow, angry even in a dream. He wants to fix that crease too but keeps on pressing the textbook pages into place. Maybe Mello can sense him here, can hear the crinkle of smoothed out paper and think of him. He stills as Mello grumbles and turns, clutching at air before settling back into quiet. 

Near may not be intimidated by him, but he works harder with Mello’s glare at his back. Mello hates him. He hates him. Near stares at his sleeping face and wonders if he would understand at Mello’s age exactly why he doesn’t mind that much. The pointed grimaces, the bitter words, the academic eviscerations in response to his arguments, it narrows his focus. He doesn’t know what he would do without that pressure. 

It’s not that he wants to be L. Near sets aside the book and slowly, carefully lies his own head on the armrest. It seems so far away, that future. And Mello is right here. He works harder and Mello hates him for it. 

Mello mumbles in his sleep. Near feels himself slipping off too, the cloying scent of apple cinnamon weighing on him. He doesn’t want Mello to hate him. 

He’s seen Mello and the others. How high? _How high?_ Near can’t make himself jump. But this, Mello burning up to beat him, Mello burning for him—

It’s better than nothing. 

Near wakes at the gentlest touch but doesn’t open his eyes, barely changes his breathing. The hand skims over his hair before nudging at his cheek, hesitation in the slight brush of fingertips. 

“Near?” The voice is groggy, unmistakable, edged in untapped tension. 

Near pretends to stay asleep. He would rather this night pass without another sharp comment. Mello pulls himself up and Near waits for the footsteps to pad out. The sudden lift of his body is almost enough for Near to flinch, pressed against warmth. He’s expecting the drop when he meets the cushion instead.

The footsteps head out and Near finally opens his eyes, heart hitting his ribs in the dark while he lies on the couch. He turns into the cushion and breaths in the scent of soap and chocolate. A tear wells in his eye. 

He doesn’t want Mello to hate him. 

\---

“Indifferent oblivion beyond the sepulcher awaits us.” B drones in the hallway, a careful mimic of a teacher they once shared, years apart. 

Near doesn’t respond, continues walking past the peeling wallpaper and webbed door frames. The faster they can get this over with, the faster Near can retreat back to the office and away from the ghost stalking his footsteps. B refuses to walk at an even pace, staggering and gawking at the empty rooms. Misora has taken to remaining behind both of them. Ever silent. 

The bandage covering B’s forehead is the only indication he’s been affected by the past day. His feet nip at Near’s and they find themselves back in the empty grand hall. The wood flooring has started to rot, soft undertones to their old footsteps. They used to echo here. A glint of afternoon sunlight passes through shattered stained glass. 

“I love what you’ve done with the place.” B picks up a loose stone and tosses it through another window. “The L program is done with, huh?”

Near keeps silent. His head feels heavier here. 

“We grew up here.” B chirps to Misora. He scuffs his feet around the dead leaves that have blown in, oddly suited to the wreckage around him. 

They find their way into the graveyard. It’s been their natural endpoint, each of them taking notice of the rolling hills, the crumbling headstones, and saying absolutely nothing about it. Here, in front of decaying markers labeled in names he never remembers using, Near looks back on Wammy’s. 

It’s not that time passes by them. It drags them by their skin, till there’s nothing left to hold onto. 

There’s nothing mentionable afterwards. Just soil and rocks and an old burned tree stump. Overgrown roses and weeds, choking them alive. It’s on the plane ride that Near and B can speak privately, Misora taking a different row in the private jet, asleep against the window.

“N,” B’s eyes continue to be pits, solid emptiness, “what was that favor you mentioned?"

Near pierces another eye for himself, this new iteration looking more promising than the other puppets, lying in a pile back at the office. It takes his mind off of the jet’s tight quarters. “You’re a safety measure.”

B lights up. “I think that’s the first time anyone’s described me like that.”

Better leashed than on the run, and better leashed than. Near loops through button holes with black thread. Dead. B hums a tune from an old anime and tap, tap, taps on the window out to the clouds, the sea. 

The plans never end. After the closure of one chapter, there’s always another. Make the two of them chase each other’s tails before a greater threat appears. B reaches his lower register, less of a tune. More of a rumble. He eyes Near like he knows what he’s thinking. 

“She doesn’t have her numbers anymore.” B tilts his head. 

Near’s hand continues looping through the stitches. 

“It’s nice.” B doesn’t blink. “Not knowing the end. We’re finally on equal footing.” 

He smiles in a manner that suggests differently. Near is older now, older than B at this point. He levels his gaze with blankness of his own. 

B scrunches up his face. “You were a creepy kid.”

Near returns to his crafting, a quick roll of the eyes as does so. 

“A liked you but,” he continues, “pardon me, _L_ , but you’re so predictable, no fun at all.”

What’s an expression? Two blank eyes in a white face. No mouth. 

“You looked like a little ghost. And you didn’t like me. Wasn’t I a fun sibling?”

Smiling, frowning, a straight line of complete neutrality. Half moon, crescents, indeterminate feeling.

B pauses. 

Near’s fingers stroke across the pale cloth. There’s calluses on his fingertips, but the rest of him is thin. A direct light reflects off him like a mirror. 

“Weird, isn’t it?” B speaks to no one. “You think the pain will never end. Then when you learn to rely on it, it leaves you.”

Empty. Like being flooded with water and vomiting up your organs till there’s only bone left. Near stares into the eyes of nothing.

“I considered giving peace a try, but it’s just boring.” B simpers, back to his old tone. Unflappable. “At least there’s variety in misery. I might give it another chance.” 

Near looks at him.

“Is that what you’re doing, B?” he asks. “Trying to make yourself miserable?”

B rests on the margins of emotion before he reverts to who he’s supposed to be, an inquisitive blank look. 

“No. I’m trying to remember.” The mask is slipping but B wears it proudly, resting a thumb against his mouth. 

Near leaves the puppet alone. He can’t make it more than what it was built to be. It’s finished, in its incompletion. Out of time. 

\---

His cranes shrivel in the fire. Near counts as he drops them on the burner, one by one. He never reached a thousand and if he did (or does, as he wipes ash from his fingertips onto the white pajama bottoms, turning over Ide’s protest against some detail on the new script they’ll send to the prisons, to Interpol, everyone weighing decency and goodness against necessity and finding that they all have different scales, ending in stalemates they turn to him to referee, irritating him when the team only coalesces to complain, lazily orbiting him until their opposing gravities collide with Near trapped in the middle, and he can’t please all of them, to be three different people at once, unlike L; he can’t even manage the two that came so easily to Yagami or Mello’s unrepentant _selfishness_ , only _one_ person he’s ever looked out for. Near is a bullet. 

There is nothing subversive about a bullet. It pierces without sly maneuvering, without hidden motives, without burning passion. It does what it was made for.)—

He thinks about what he would wish for while they all go up in flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! This has been a huge undertaking and I'm not sure how proud I am of the finished chapter, but I am glad I have finished it. It's been a challenge, and a very enjoyable one at that. I am in it for the long haul now; who knows how long the next one will be.
> 
> Thank you guys for all the comments and kudos! They really encourage me to keep writing. If you guys are interested in getting more frequent updates and small tastes of the next chapter, I've been updating my twitter on a semi-daily basis at [@firesafinething](https://twitter.com/firesafinething). I'll see you in the next chapter!


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